Everything that Kills Me
by darnedchild
Summary: Dreams. Fevered, erotic, all consuming. A woman whose beauty takes his breath away. Sherlock doesn't ever want to wake up. - 2019 Sherlolly Halloween entry
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** \- This fic is inspired by a moodboard created by **mel-loves-all** for the 2018 Sherlolly Halloween, which—in turn—had started as a prompt offered by me (from the lyrics of "Counting Stars" by OneRepublic) when Mel was looking for some inspiration last year. We've come full circle, friends.

Please look for mel-loves-all's original moodboard post on Tumblr (I'll try to include a way to find it, but you know FFdotNet. You're going to have to work for it.), if you'd like to leave some love there.

tumblr = mel-loves-all

post = post/ 179244731608/ halloween-at-221b-a-sherlolly-celebration

Mel-loves-all's notes about her edit - _"Original Prompt: from darnedchild (Everything that kills me makes me feel alive)_

_**** darnedchild after reading your prompt, my mind totally went towards a Sherlolly AU where Sherlock encounters a dangerous, but sexy Succubus called Molly. Oh course it would go there. LOL!)***"_

We're going AU, obviously. Aspects from the show up through "The Reichenbach Fall" will be included, but are not the main focus of the story so please forgive me for any liberties I've taken with the show canon. Currently unbeta'd because, once again, I'm running behind.

The fic summary belongs to mel-loves-all.

**Everything that Kills Me**

_makes me feel alive_

**Part 1**

Sherlock maintained many bolt holes spread out across the inner (and a few of the outer) boroughs. Far more than his associates were aware of, much to the annoyance of dear brother Mycroft.

Some of the bolt holes were so rarely visited even Sherlock would occasionally forget they existed, until the time came to dig through his mind palace to find a place to shelter down for a few hours to think or rest.

One of those places was a mostly abandoned groundskeeper shed near a leaning tomb at Hamstead Cemetery in Camden.

The location wasn't ideal as far as basic amenities, but it was certainly quiet and out of the way enough that he normally wouldn't be interrupted or pulled out of his thoughts. And when he'd reached the point of exhaustion, anything with a vertical surface to lay on would be good enough.

Which is how he found himself on a bare cot, in a small room containing a few forgotten pieces of lawn equipment, and only the soft light of the moon filtering through the single window to offer comfort.

He closed his eyes almost immediately. His mind blanked in the way that only happened when he had pushed himself past the physical limitations of his body (or miscalculated his high enough to mute everything, including his thoughts), leaving him with no choice but to sleep.

Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed when an unexpected voice jolted him awake. Unexpected and almost familiar.

"… avoided the temptation. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I gave in? How hard I've had to work to control my urges? My hunger? I'm practically starving. And here you are, when I'm at my weakest, looking so … delectable. I could just eat you up."

His head snapped up, and he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the hopes of identifying the speaker.

"Would you like that, Sherlock?"

He jerked upright, his hackles rising at the sound of his name.

A form stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.

Irene Alder.

As she took another step closer, he realized something seemed off about her. Much like the barely audible difference, almost a whispered echo, in her voice; he was looking at the face and body of the Woman … but not. Her eyes were blue, but even in the faint light he could tell they weren't the same blue that he remembered so well. Her lips were stained Irene's favourite shade of red, but they weren't the right proportion. Smaller. Thinner.

Not a doppelganger, but close enough to be the Woman's twin. She would have fooled a less observant man.

"Who are you?"

"Don't you know?" She ran her hands—tipped in long nails painted the same colour as her lips—down her body. They paused to bunch or smooth her diaphanous gown at each dip and curve as if they were unfamiliar to her. As if she wasn't used to the feel of the body she wore.

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" She took one more step toward him and reached out to touch the side of his face. He shuddered at the contact. "No?" Her red, red lips pulled into a pout. "That's disappointing."

"You are not Irene Adler," Sherlock accused her.

She titled her head and looked down at him with a hint of curiosity in her expression. "Is that her name?"

"Don't pretend you didn't know. Why else would you have gone to the trouble of looking like this." He waved his hand at her. "Although how you've managed to pull this off—" He blinked as something she'd said echoed through his mind palace until it clicked into place. "You said 'is'. Is, not was. How did you know she's still alive?"

She shrugged. "I don't, but you do."

The woman (but not The Woman, he was absolutely certain) slid her leg over his and settled onto his lap before he could protest. She tried to wrap her arms around his neck and pull herself tight against his chest, but he held her off with his hands at her waist.

"Oh, Sherlock. I know you want her; you desire this body. Don't fight it. All you have to do is say yes. Welcome me into your arms, and you can take it. Do everything you've ever dreamed of to your pretty Irene." She leaned in to kiss him and he jerked his head away.

"What are you talking about? Get off of me."

She clenched her thighs along the outside of his and refused to be dislodged, but she did pull back enough to leave space between their upper bodies.

"You want her, but she's not the one, is she?" She brushed a curl off of his temple. "No, there's another, hidden deep in your mind."

She inhaled deeply and her eyelashes fluttered. He would almost swear that her blue eyes flashed golden brown for less than a second.

"You're not just trying to hide her from me, you've locked her away from yourself. Except for when your heart races with desire and your cock grows firm with the lust you cannot deny. Who is it that makes your blood burn, Sherlock? What name is on the tip of your tongue when you spill your seed into your fist?"

Sherlock grimaced in disgust and finally succeeded in pushing her off his lap. "Don't be vulgar."

There was no missing the golden flash this time. Then she gasped in delight, "Oh, there she is."

Her features began to blur and shift, causing Sherlock to doubt his own eyes. Perhaps even his sanity.

Her hair lightened and grew longer. Her face softened and grew more elfin. The very proportions of her body changed. And when she opened her eyes, they were the familiar soft, warm brown he recognized from the pathologist from Barts.

Molly Hooper.

God, she was lovely.

She looked down at her body, then back up at him. "Interesting."

Unlike the fake Irene, he couldn't find anything that indicated that she wasn't the real Molly Hooper. Even her voice was Molly's, no hint of the eerie echo from before.

But that was impossible.

Sherlock blinked several times and shook his head. "What are you?" he rasped.

"You can't be real." He shook his head again. "I'm dreaming. That's the only explanation."

She reached toward him once again, then froze when a ray of pre-dawn light stretched across the floor at her feet. "There's my clever boy. That's exactly what this is. A dream. Just a dream." Her eyes cut toward the window and she frowned before turning back to him. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to play with you any longer. It's late, and you must be tired. Close your eyes and let yourself rest." Her voice was almost hypnotic. "Sleep, Sherlock. Sleep."

He tried to fight it, but she was right. He was tired. So very, very tired.

The last thing he felt before he fell asleep was the hot press of Molly's lips against his own and the warmth of her breath as she whispered in his ear, "Dream of me."

It was mid-morning before he woke and managed to stumble back to Baker Street, only to be intercepted by John in the sitting room.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You look like hell. What did you do last night?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

"I was beginning to think you didn't want to see me again." Molly's voice wrapped around him like a sheet made of the softest silk.

He slowly opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the lab at Barts where he'd spent the afternoon bent over a s microscope. Molly had checked in with him off and on while he'd worked. Had he become lost in his thoughts waiting for her to return?

However, it wasn't the lab he saw. Instead, it was the tiny room he'd discovered while exploring the old horse tunnels near the Stables Market, not far from the Camden Lockes. He'd left an electric lantern on when he'd lain down on the cheap mattress that some of his people had smuggled down more than a year ago.

Clearly, he must have fallen asleep at some point, because there was no feasible way that Molly Hooper would be standing in front of him. She was wearing the same thing she'd been in when she'd said good night as he left the lab. There was no mistaking her current favourite jumper. Mustard yellow and at least a size too large, it hung nearly to her thighs and completely obscured her firm breasts and tiny waist.

He shook his head and promised himself, once again, that he would be deleting the memory of Molly in that little black dress from his mind very, very soon. There was no reason to continue to remember what her body looked like under her bulky, over-sized clothing.

"You're not Molly." Sherlock was positive of that. Wasn't he?

"Ah, but what if you're wrong?" she countered with a hint of laughter in her voice.

"Why would Molly be lurking around here in the middle of the night? Or back in that shed at the cemetery? She has a house with a very comfortable bed. I know, I've slept in it." It occurred to him that, perhaps, he should have left that last bit about the comfort of Molly's bed out of his argument.

"And you have Baker Street." She gestured around the nearly empty room. "Yet here we both are."

He studied her for a long moment and she calmly let him, without a hint of unease in her expression. "What are you?"

"I could have sworn we worked this all-out last time. I'm a figment of your exhausted mind. Merely a dream. You really do push yourself far too hard, Sherlock."

He almost believed she was actually concerned about him.

"If this is all a dream, then it won't matter if I wake myself up." He watched her face to see how she reacted to that.

"If that's what you want." She pointed to mattress he was still curled upon. "May I?"

After a moment Sherlock nodded and sat up to make room for her. The low-quality mattress shifted under her added weight, sagging in the middle and tilting them close enough that their shoulders touched. He quickly pulled away from the contact and tried to cover the action with a sarcastic verbal jab meant to distract her. "No plans to throw yourself into my lap this time?"

"You didn't seem to like it." Her mischievous smile told him that she knew what he'd done, but she was willing to let him get away with it for now. "Have you changed your mind?"

He was quick to reply with an indignant, "Of course not." Seconds later, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Wouldn't you have already known that, without needing to ask? You acted as if you could practically read my mind before."

She shrugged. "You didn't seem to like that, either."

When he thought about it, her earlier knowledge made a strange sort of sense. Of course, his dreaming mind would know what he was thinking. Matter settled. Perfectly logical explanation. Nothing to worry about.

Except something still felt off.

"Is that important, doing things I like?"

"Mmmhmm," she hummed. "It's very important." She leaned toward him and practically purred, "I want you to like me."

Sherlock caught himself watching the way her lips moved and hated himself for it. He forced himself to look into her eyes instead. "But I don't. Won't. I can't. Not while you're wearing Molly's face."

"I don't need to read your mind tonight to know that's not true."

He pulled himself off the mattress with an indignant huff, and began to pace.

She let him circle the room twice before she spoke again. "This is just a dream, Sherlock. You don't have to lie to yourself here. I certainly won't tell."

His scoff echoed against the stone walls, but he reluctantly turned to listen to her.

"Anything can happen in your dreams. Anything, anywhere … with anyone." She held out her hand to beckon him closer. "With me."

"But you are not Molly!" He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at the strands, hoping to force himself awake. It didn't work.

"I am. I'm your Molly, if you want me to be." She spoke softly, as if she were trying to sooth an agitated beast. "You can talk to me, hold me, love me without worrying about the consequences in the morning." She extended her hand just a little bit further. "Sit with me, just a little while. Please."

Sherlock took a deep breath and hesitantly took her hand. She slowly pulled him closer, wordlessly urging him to settle beside her. This time, when the mattress dipped, he didn't pull away.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, "Thank you."

Almost on instinct, he put his arm around her when she released his hand and burrowed closer to his side.

He'd always know that Molly was petite, but he hadn't quite understood what that would feel like if they were ever this close, this intimate. How strong and dominate it would make him feel to curl around her small body.

The first soft brush of her lips against his neck made his skin prickle. He couldn't contain his sharp inhale of surprise.

Somehow, impossibly, she even smelled like Molly.

"I-This isn't-" He stumbled over his words as her lips trailed upward along his jaw.

His eyes fluttered closed and he moaned when her teeth gently nipped his earlobe. Her voice was husky when she reassured him that nothing would happen that he didn't want.

She flicked her tongue against the curve of his jaw. "Do you want to stop?"

It took less than a second consider it. He shook his head.

"I need to hear you say it, Sherlock." She pressed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Tell me what you want."

He brought his hand up to her cheek and nudged her back so he could see her face. "I don't want to stop."

Her eyes flashed that golden brown that he remembered from before. He wondered what it meant, what his subconscious mind could be trying to tell him. Then she smiled and said, "So kiss me," and he could think of nothing else but her.

The taste of her.

The delicious sound she made the first time he parted her lips with his tongue.

The softness of her skin when his hand slipped beneath that awful yellow jumper.

His groaned "Molly" was barely audible; but, somehow, she heard it.

She shuddered in response. "Yes, love. I'm right here." Then she leaned her weight into him, and he allowed himself to be pushed down onto the mattress.

He felt her teeth pull at his lower lip as she settled over him. He protested when she sat up to begin tugging at the buttons of his shirt, but the way she ground her arse against his rapidly hardening cock took his breath away and cut off anything else he would have said. She flicked his shirt open and licked her lips at the sight. The scratch of her nails against his chest was electric. His back arched as she teased the skin just below his navel, so close to where he craved her touch the most.

When she finally pressed her palm against his clothed cock, he growled.

As much as he wanted this, wanted her, he had to make a half-hearted attempt to stop her when she slid between his legs and reached for his fly. "You shouldn't-"

She looked up at him with those odd golden brown eyes, silently asking for permission to continue. He swallowed and gave her one more chance to back out. "If you're sure?"

Her answer was impossible to misread as slipped the head of his cock into her mouth.

"Fuck!" He'd received and given oral sex before, but this was nothing like he remembered. It was more. So much more. Almost overwhelming. He curled his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms in a vain effort to temper the urge to beg or to thrust his hips up every time she swirled her tongue against his glans.

At some point she pulled away with an obscenely wet sound and he ground his teeth together to muffle his whimper of protest.

"Don't hold back. I want everything you can give me, my love. Everything. I want to drain you dry." She took him back into her mouth and he willingly gave up his tenuous hold on his control.

He took her at her word and trusted that she would let him know if he was too rough.

Sherlock sunk his hands into her hair and urged her to take him a little deeper. "That's it, just like that." He let her set the pace for a while, until he felt the first familiar tingle at the base of his spine. "Gonna come soon," he panted. "And you're going to swallow every drop like a good girl. Aren't you, Molly?"

She moaned her very enthusiastic consent around his cock and somehow managed to take him even deeper until he was certain that he was touching the back of her throat. "Fuck. Christ. So good."

He gripped her head and held her still as he used her mouth to chase the orgasm that was just out of reach. "Use your tongue. Don't stop. Don't. Stop. Don't. Molly!"

Sherlock came so hard that his vision whited out. He tried to reach for her, perhaps to offer to reciprocate, but his hands grasped at empty air. "Molly? What about you?"

"Shush." He felt her hand brush a sweat dampened curl off his forehead. "Next time. You're tired now. Sleep." She kissed him, soft and gentle. "Dream of me, love."

Eventually he opened his eyes again to find that he was sprawled out on the mattress. All of his clothes were still in place, properly buttoned and zipped. There was a small, still sticky patch of drying semen in his boxers; a humiliating reminder that he must have come in his sleep like a hormonal adolescent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Sherlock rubbed his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that day. He had things to do, samples to analyse, results to decipher, a counterfeiter to locate… If only he could focus.

He felt absurd to even think it, but even he had to admit he might have been pushing himself just a little too hard of late, as Molly—_no, not Molly, it was his subconscious mind_—had insisted.

Sherlock jerked upright at the touch of John's hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" John asked with real concern in his voice.

"I'm fine. I'm not a child, I don't need mothering," He snapped before he could bite back the irritated words.

John narrowed his eyes in a silent warning that he didn't appreciate Sherlock's tone, but he did lift his hands up and back away.

"Sorry. I'm just-" _Exhausted_. _ I just want to sleep for a bit. Just crawl into bed and pass out and maybe see her and… No! _Thoughts like that were the reason he hadn't allowed himself more than brief catnaps over the last week.

"Being a prick?" John supplied. "Yeah, I'm used to it."

Molly raised her head and frowned from her spot at another lab table. "Maybe we all need to take a break for a few minutes. Coffee?"

Coffee. Sherlock definitely needed a cup of coffee. "Yes, please. Thank you, Molly."

She gave him a brilliant smile and started to head to the door before she remembered to ask John if he wanted one.

He waited until she was gone to turn back to Sherlock. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You, with the please and thank you instead of tossing off your order like the Lord of the Manor."

"Really, John?" Sherlock scoffed. "Lord of the Manor?"

"You're trying to change the subject."

Sherlock made a show of turning back to the computer screen and ignoring John completely. That lasted less than thirty seconds before John started speaking again. "You know, there's something that's been puzzling me for a while."

"Just the one thing? Surprising." He continued to stare at the screen and hoped John would take the hint.

"Prick." John pulled out the stool next to Sherlock and made himself comfortable. Sherlock mentally groaned as he realized his friend wasn't going to be put off. "Have you ever wondered how Molly managed to keep Moriarty's attention as long as she did?"

"He was using her to get to me," Sherlock reminded him. "You know that."

"Well, yeah, but that would only go so far. Can you see Jim Moriarty sitting through a couple of nights of stupid American sitcoms just to get close to you for five minutes?" John shook his head. "No way."

Now he had Sherlock's full attention. "Is there a point to this?"

"I'm just saying, he could have followed Molly down to the lab or the observation deck at the morgue to accidentally run into you at any point after that first date, couldn't he? So why did he drag it out as long as he did?" John chuckled. "You know what they say."

"No, I don't think I do. What do_ they_ say?"

"It's always the quiet ones you have to look out for."

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his irritation. "Really, John. You don't have anything better to do than gossip about a colleague?"

John had the good grace to look a little guilty.

Still, when Molly backed her way into the lab with three cups of coffee carefully balanced in her hands, Sherlock couldn't help but think about what John had said. Why did Moriarty wait so long to start the last act of his plan?

Was he simply waiting for one last detail to fall into place? Or was there something about quiet little Molly Hooper that kept drawing one of the most dangerous men on the planet back?

"Here you go. Black, two sugars. Just the way you like it." Molly set the cup of coffee as far away from the computer as she could get it and still have it in Sherlock's reach. She nodded toward the screen. "Did your results come back yet?"

Her smile was wide and innocent and exactly as it had been every other time she'd smiled at him over the years.

He shook off John's insinuations and took a cautious sip of the coffee before answering her. "Not yet."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **A quick thank you to mizjoely and STLGeekgirl for giving this a quick read through for me tonight. I've been working on this chapter for days and had basically gone crossed-eyed.

**Part 4**

The faint scent of antiseptic and vanilla teased his nostrils seconds before a cool touch traced his jawline. His fingers were tightly wrapped around her delicate wrist before he even opened his eyes.

When he did look up, it was to find Molly leaning over him with her hair loose around her shoulders and nearly brushing against his chest. Unbidden, his gaze flicked down her body to find she was dressed in a cami and short set he'd seen once before, when he'd let himself into Molly's house unannounced and she'd been lounging in the sitting room with a cup of cocoa and a romance novel. From this angle he could see the outline of her breasts in the faint shadows inside her gaping top.

"You called?" she asked with a teasing lilt.

Sherlock pushed her hand away and sat up, swinging his legs down off his sofa. A quick look around the room reassured him that he was still in Baker Street. "I did no such thing."

Molly—_Not Molly_, he forced himself to remember—huffed and put her hands on her hips. "Oh, please. Don't tell me we're back to this again."

He rubbed the palm of his hand against the fabric of his sleep pants, trying to override the tactile memory of her soft skin under his fingers. "I fell asleep." His voice was flat, a statement rather than a question.

"Obviously." She sighed and eased onto the cushion next to him without waiting for an invitation. "You dreamed of me, and I came."

"I didn't," Sherlock insisted. He tried to focus on what he'd been thinking of just before she'd disturbed him. There wasn't much in his memory, just fragments of sound (_a sweet laugh, an even sweeter gasp_) and smell (_vanilla and sweat, the musk of an aroused woman_) and touch … _Fuck._

"I told you." Molly leaned her head into him and pressed her lips against his shoulder. "The question is, what could you have possibly been dreaming of to summon me like this?"

Her hand settled on his bare chest then slid it lower; slowly, as if she were offering him the chance to stop her. Her nails scratched along his skin, just hard enough to make him wish for more. Air hissed through his teeth as she paused for a second to ghost her thumb across his nipple.

He titled his head to watch her progress, clenching his jaw to bite back whatever words were threating to escape. Whether they would have been demands for her to let him go or to keep going, he didn't know.

"No suggestions? What about a hint?" Molly asked with feigned innocence.

She hesitated just as her fingertips barely dipped below the edge of his waistband. "Sherlock?"

He exhaled in a rush and turned and cupped the back of her neck, careful not to dislodge her hand. "You're a smart girl, figure it out." Then he kissed her. Open mouthed and brutal, as if he wanted to punish her for making him give in to his desire.

When he released her lips to mouth at her neck, she let out a breathy laugh and threw her head back to give him greater access. "What do you want from me, love? What will you give me in return?"

"Shut up," Sherlock growled against her neck.

Molly pulled her hand out of his sleep pants and pushed it against his chest with surprising strength, forcing him to release her entirely. "No, no. That's not how this works."

He reached for her again and she continued to hold him off. "I can give you what you want, but first you have to tell me what I want to hear." She trailed her fingers down to just below his navel and then hooked them into his waistband.

His eyes narrowed. "Why? You obviously know I want to fuck you. Why do I need to say it?"

"Because that's the rule, Sherlock. I can't take what you don't freely give." Molly's tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip. Oddly enough, he didn't think it was a calculated gesture. "I want to be with you, but it has to be your choice. I have to be certain, and that means you have to say it."

She waited, unnaturally still. If it wasn't for the slight rise and fall of her chest, he might have imagined she was a statue.

His eyes flicked over her again, and he felt a momentary pang of guilt at the thought of using a dream vision of Molly like this. It seemed wrong, and yet he couldn't deny himself.

"Consider this my freely given consent. Clearly, and explicitly, so there are no misunderstandings. I'm going to make you come. And then, when you're desperate and begging for my cock, I'm going to make you come again. And _then_ I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel me for days."

"Yes," Molly moaned as if he was already well on his way to making good his first promise/warning.

This time, when her eyes briefly changed colour, he was expecting it. Anticipating it. Whatever the cause, whatever it signified, he'd never be able to see that shade without remembering Molly's touch, her taste, the way she said his name as if she wanted him. Needed him. Would die if she couldn't have him…

Just like he needed her.

She surged forward to kiss him, and he let her have her way. Let her bite at his lower lip and suck his tongue. He let her have his mouth while he shoved his sleep pants down his hips, then forced her fingers to wrap around his cock when she didn't react quickly enough.

They both groaned at the contact.

Her hand began to stroke him, long pulls that ended with a swipe of her thumb across the head of his erection.

"Are you wet for me, Molly?"

She nodded eagerly and tried to kiss him again.

"Oh no, you have to use your words. Remember?" Somehow, he managed to smirk even as she slipped her hand lower to cradle his scrotum.

Her eyes promised retribution, but she answered him. "Wet enough that you could take me right now." She squeezed his balls just enough to border on uncomfortable, and he found that he liked it. "But you made me a promise, and I intend to collect, Sherlock Holmes. Unless you're all talk?"

He bared his teeth and practically snarled as he pushed her willing body down on the sofa and slid to his knees on the floor. Molly lifted her hips to help him pull her shorts off. She yelped when he wrapped his hands around her calves and yanked her closer to the edge of the cushion, but then he shouldered her thighs apart and all she could do was moan his name.

It had been years since he'd done this, but instinct and the way her toes curled and her breath stuttered guided him toward what she liked best. She shied away from direct, hard contact with her clit; but when his tongue flicked around it, she sunk her hands into his hair and pulled him closer. She arched her back and nearly slid off the sofa when he slid a finger into her cunt and curled it upward.

When he added a second one, she came hard.

He gentled and slowed his movements until her channel stopped fluttering; then, before her breathing could even out entirely, started all over again. She cried out when he circled her clit with his tongue.

"Sherlock!"

He raised his head just enough to see over her mound. She was watching him. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was damp with sweat around her temples. "I want you inside me."

"I will be." He bit the inside of her thigh hard enough to leave a temporary red mark. "But not until you come again."

It didn't take as long the second time; her body was still flushed and sensitive from the lingering aftereffects of her orgasm. She screamed when she came again. Begged him to fuck her, to fill her up.

He considered punishing her for her earlier teasing by pushing her for a third, but Molly took the matter out of his hands. She shoved the coffee table out of the way with one foot, then used her body to force him onto his back.

Sherlock grunted as her weight settled on his chest; but his hands went to her hips to pull her even closer, making it clear that he was pleased with their current position. For now.

She lowered her head and reached down to grasp his cock, and rubbed the head against the wetness between her legs. As the tip of him slid into her heat, Molly looked up with a satisfied smile.

Her eyes were completely gold.

He knew he should be alarmed—should push her off and scramble away—but he only wanted her more.

This Molly, his Molly, was breathtaking.

The thought of being at her mercy made him shiver with need.

Torturously slowly, she lowered herself the rest of the way onto his cock.

He'd forgotten he was still wearing his sleep pants when he tried to bend his knees for better leverage and the elastic band tightened across his thighs, where they'd been since he'd shoved them down earlier.

"Hold on, I need to-" he started, but Molly dug her short nails—so different then the blood red tipped talons they'd been the first night he'd dreamt of her—into his chest and shook her head.

"Don't. Stop." It was an order and he eagerly complied. If she wanted to ride him like this, both of them still partially dressed and spread out on the floor, then that's what she would have.

The heat of her skin against his, the silken grip of her cunt, her scent, the way she had begun to gasp his name over and over… All of it was combining to make him lightheaded. The only thing he could focus on was the electric tingle starting at the base of his spine.

"Close," he managed to choke out a warning as his balls began to tighten and draw closer to his body.

"Then let yourself go."

Part of him wanted to hold on, wanted to prolong the moment, but the rest couldn't deny her.

He came with a curse. His arms wrapped around her back, holding her in place against his chest as his hips stuttered against her. She closed the distance between their lips and kissed him, sucked on his tongue until he was breathless. His cock pulsed inside her warmth far longer than he could ever remember experiencing before. He felt euphoric and utterly drained at the same time.

Sherlock fought a losing battle to keep his eyes open.

Molly murmured reassuring words as she peppered kisses along his jaw. "You were so good for me, my love. Now I'll never let you go."


End file.
